The 75
by mintjellyfish
Summary: To be a Victor was both an honor and a hindrance. A blessing, and a curse.
1. Maximus

**Created this as headcanon for my stories two years ago. Inspired by Mauradercat and Oisin55, I decided to give it a try. Let me know what you think.**

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Chapter 1: Maximus

They're herded inside a room. Batons prod them forward. Tight shackles have been placed on their wrists and ankle. It's an office of some sort. Six metal seats line the front of a grand desk. Peacekeepers wall the entire room, rifles locked and loaded. Thirteen total, counting the six who led them in. He recognizes two of the guys here. Neither make eye contact. They're instructed to sit. The room is as dark and secretive as the reason they are here. The six wait in dutiful silence, knowing better than to speak first. All eyes are on the man of the hour, who's currently enjoying a midday snack of tea and scones. One by one, he nibbles on the powdery pastries and sips ever-so-lightly from his teacup. A full four minutes passes before he begins. A young Avox tap away the crumbs with a monogrammed handkerchief. _ARS_. Of course.

"A welcomed surprise to see you all here," he greets each of us with a nod. As if they had much choice. Soft appreciation is given before the speech continues.

"As you may know, the First Annual Hunger Games will begin in approximately," he takes a quick glance at his wristwatch. "Eighteen minutes and counting. Are you excited? Nervous? Ready to honor your waiting Capitol?"

On cue, they nod their heads and smile.

"You may be wondering, 'Why am I here?'," the young noble speaks, briefly distracted by another serving of scones. "Yes, yes, you protected the heart of Panem from death and destruction. My greatest gratitudes for that. But now I request just one last act of _patriotism_. It's simple really. Don't you agree?"

"Certainly."

"Of course."

"Yes, I agree."

"Wouldn't have it any other way."

"Yes. A simple request."

"Mh-hm."

"Excellent." President Amandus Rinaldolfo Snow is an interesting man. Boy really, a year younger than the Tributes sitting before him. Pretty, filled cheeks, wide eyes. Unnaturally so. After President Praevalida Snow and General Quirinus Snow, peace be with their souls, fell in combat, Capitol officials scrambled to find a replacement. Rumor has it they couldn't come to an agreement and elected the boy only as acting president. Loyalists were concerned having such a young leader. But he wasn't. He was a natural in politics, and in brutality. The restorations, the crackdowns, the public executions. Peacekeeper presence increased. Taxes and quotas doubled. District travel was made illegal, electric fences and armed guards for anyone brazen enough to try it. A year after the war and the teenager had the respect he demanded.

He was his mother's child.

He had to do something to make the public forget him partying his way through the war.

The Hunger Games was his last creation. He fought tooth and nail for its legislation. After some gentle persuasion and a few sudden illnesses, it was passed. Details were sparse, told only to the Loyalists. "An annual gala where the now twelve districts would battle for honor and sacrifice". The intellectuals reasoned exemption from this "gala". They had terminated their ties to the rebellion. They had signed The Loyal Surrender. Shouldn't they be excused?

They were not. Instead, they reached a compromise. Training facilities were built in the order of surrender: six months before the Games for Four, nine for One, and one full year for Two. Gifts for their service. But there was a catch: two willing volunteers required, save special circumstances. Compromise the deal and the titles would be stripped. District Thirteen fresh on their minds, they were afraid. One and Four in particular. Panem needed Two's industries. It could do without lipstick and prawns. So the deal was sealed. The Loyalists reluctantly sent off their children trained by the Capitol's best. The Rebels, getting the news just three weeks prior, were rounded up and selected at the televised "Reapings".

District Two, receiving the greatest advantage, called for their best and brightest. The mayor knew just who to ask. He urged the powerful Zoratas to send their son to fight. The war veterans were nervous but beaming with pride. The mayor personally asked them to honor their district. With his parents' blessing and older sister's envy, off he went to train.

"Perfection. Gem. Maximus. Fiorenza. Ferran. Ora. You are here for a reason. I arrived to your districts and hand-picked you from the throngs of average folk. Your skill and obedience made you stand out. You outshined your competition! You rose to the occasion like a fledgling ready to fly! How you impressed me so. And I noticed it, oh yes I did." Amandus's monologue continues, teacup swinging through the air, spilling hot liquid on the poor Avox next to him.

"My mother and uncle would be honored by your service. Make my selection worth it. Cheers!"

Generous things of champagne are thrown their 're commanded to drink. The others down their glasses. He eases two sips.

"Off with these hooligans! To the Arena we go!"

Peacekeepers grab them from the chairs and they leave. The screams of the awaiting crowd reverberate through the metal walls of the underground hideout. He tries to ignore the deafening sounds, the shackles embedded into his skin, the gun pointed towards his back, the not-so-Loyalist treatment they've received since getting here. It doesn't work.

Goosebumps sprout on his exposed arms and chest. Suddenly, inexplicably, he is afraid. It's not that he doubts himself. He is a Zorata. Respected in the Capitol, revered in Two. If he's to believe the boy's words, one of them will win. That's still five people against him. Five is a lot. Five is plenty chances to screw up and die. What if his training wasn't enough? The Four boy has noticed his trepidation, cocking a patronizing eyebrow upward.

_Calm down Maximus. You've been through worse. Remember: This is for your family. This is for your country. Just another war effort._

_Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding._

Doors open to a different scene. The sterile background of Amandus' lair has changed. Layers of faded brick and stucco are slapped upon the walls and ceiling. Cracked seating jut out from the hasty construction. A holding cell.

The others are here, dressed in the same used war boots, tanks and trousers as the Loyalists. Pilot Baltimore Anderlee from District Six. Cooper Greystorm from Twelve. Lt. Maldonado's little girl. The Liliums. Even Agent Wozniak, Five's greatest spy, here in the flesh. The Capitol's Most Wanted.

The sudden arrival causes quite the commotion. Four are held back. Two openly weep. A slur is shouted and spit lands on their shoes. They know.

With their heads held high, they're placed far away from the rebels and wait in silence. Sweat builds on his brow. It's unbearably hot, the ceiling doing nothing to block out the heat. Their section has food and other amenities. The only sign of their elevated status. Rows and rows of Capitolites are here. Rowdy, loud, drunk off their entitled asses. Peacekeepers are having a hard time containing the rabid crowd, one man almost flipping over the very high brick walls separating the divine from the damned. Camera crews are in all parts of the Arena, recording every second of the commotion. Then, the crowd falls dead.

Amandus is on a balcony. His Flavor of the Moment is in tow.

"Greetings Panem! I am enamored to see my country so alive!"

His voice is deeper than what it was in the lair.

"Now, the rules. Each Tribute will fight one-on-one with a competitor of your, the Capitol audience's, choosing. The match ends when a Tribute falls. Only one may win and receive the title of Victor. A tournament of ultimate sacrifice, and ultimate bravery. Ladies and gentlemen, I welcome you to...The Hunger Games!"

The crowd roars. The gate opens.

Let the Games begin.

Fiorenza is first. Maximus nods to his former comrade. She doesn't nod back. Heavily padded Peacekeepers release the chains and bring her out to the tiny dirt field. Her kill is the petrified Private Daytona Strauss. Computer specialist during the war. An unfair fight. Machetes are given to the girls. Both sides used them in the war. At least they tried. Fiorenza is still as a rock. Daytona is trembling. A gong sounds.

Fiorenza betrays her former stance and dives in. Daytona holds her on at first, screaming, shouting, and panting but blocking the bigger girl's moves. Yet with each clash, she gets sloppier and sloppier. Maximus watches the girl. Fiorenza's fast and relentless, perfect for rushdown. He's seen her on the battlefield and in training. She's good. For a girl. Hopping around her prey, it takes one misstep for it to end.

Fiorenza strikes. A weapon flies. A throat is slit. A cannon sounds. The battle is over.

Thirty-three seconds.

The crowd goes wild. Baltimore has to be subdued. Daytona's body is dragged out of the field. Fiorenza is disarmed and taken back to the cell. Avoxes rush to heal and hydrate her. She doesn't make eye contact with anyone. She is silent but shaking.

Maximus is next. He stands up on his own, prepping his body as much as the chains allow. Two Peacekeepers a few years older than him escort him out. Tenere and Romano. They live two doors down. Great set of guys.

"Good luck Maxi," whispers Romano as he sends off his childhood friend. "Kill that rebel dead."

Easier said than done. Officer Trellis Walker is quite the man. He's the tallest Tribute here, a good five inches on the eighteen year old. Muscles atop muscles, towering height. The physique of a logger. This grown man could probably cut down all of District Seven in one go. Maximus raises an eyebrow. The Capitol chose him as his opponent? He wasn't sure whether to be flattered by their faith or offended by their stupidity.

"Prepare to die Zorata." The boy's words hit him the same time as his sword. All of his doubt is kept tightly behind his mask as he parry his swing. The rapid attack both catches him off-guard and pisses him off. Who said the match would start on his terms?

Not only is Trellis fast, he is strong. He wields the weapon like it's a third arm, swinging the sword with ease. Each strike sends Maximus back more and more. He's trying to back the boy in and he's succeeding. And falling right into his plan. Maximus is a reactive fighter. He lets his opponent do the work for him. They strike, he counters. Move forward, fall back. They tire, he kills. As expected, it's working. The logger's even cocky with it.

"Look at you, selling your soul to the Capitol and still getting your ass handed to you by a _real_ man. You are an embarrassment to your country and an embarrassment to your Loyalist friends over there."

Friends? He barely knows them. Blocking his upper swing causes his sword to graze his fighting arm. Only a shallow cut. You would think he chopped the warrior's head off by his triumphant grin.

His diatribe continues. "I remember you in my district. Your people were ruthless, cutting down our men like they were _saplings_. Three of my cousins died in the war. My girl lost an arm cause of it. How dare you! How fucking dare you. This is for them. I have to win. I _will _win."

Trellis' breaths are heavy and his moves are messy. He's losing momentum. Good. Any second and this boy will shut up for good.

The warrior looks into the logger's eyes. Anger. Smug. Fear. Desperation. He tries one last jab.

"Fighting against the rebels in this hell. Did you really win the war?"

"I won this fight."

Maximus sidesteps to the left the same time he charges for the right, his side wide open. It's quick. One up the torso, one through the heart.

One minute and fifty-one seconds.

He'd feel sorry for former Officer Trellis Walker, who is currently sprawled out on the ground like a used rag, had not the vile mixture of blood and perspiration landed in his mouth. The Avoxes should have something to wash that out.

The battles go on like so, brief intermissions in between each. The matchups are a lot fairer than what Amandus advertised. Gem loses her footing twice. Eight lands a nasty one on Ferran's thigh. Everyone here had some role in the Dark Days. They know how to kill. Few, however, want to. Most hesitate, the cock of a gun goading them to fight. These are their comrades. Friends. Family for the Liliums. Both from Three try to escape. Eleven's boy commits suicide in an act of defiance. The crowd loves it.

The Rebels who do fight put their all into it, unleashing every single emotion they've felt since losing the war. For them, it's personal. For the Loyalists, it's business.

Or that's what Maximus tell himself. As the fights drag on, they start to wear on the boy. Things get different. Bloodshed of the present mix with images of the become one. Is that a rebel Tribute or a fallen comrade? Why is he in chains? The rebels have him hostage again. He needs to get out of here. He needs to get out.

_Focus Maximus, focus. The war is over. Relax. The war is over. The war is over. We won. The rebels can't hurt you anymore. _

Perfection and Ferran notice and whisper something childish to each other. He ignores them. In due time.

Round Two. Only six rebels left. Child's play now. Agent Wozniak is a better spy than he is a fighter. The flowing wound on his arm doesn't help any. Seventeen seconds.

Round Three. Just the Loyalists. Perfection poses a challenge. He has technique but he's too showy. A chant has broken out in his name. The crowd's favorite. Capitolites love pretty things. Maximus catches the blond in the throat while he smirks at an adoring fan. Now they chant his name. Guess he didn't live up to his. Five minutes and two seconds.

Fiorenza wins her fight with Ora, but the matchup leaves her near death. Purple-robed men, Game Conductors they're called, declare that she is too injured to fight Ferran. Leaving Maximus the honor. Joy.

He's much different than his last three. His swordwork is incredible, playing a good keepaway but striking with every opportunity. The fishing district came to win. Alas, it _is_ the fishing district. His wielding can't save his speed and footwork. Just as quickly he comes onto the warrior is how quickly he is dead. For some strange reason, the kill isn't so satisfying. Three minutes and eighty seconds.

Fiorenza is released back onto the field, healed but hurting. They're a sight to behold: battered, bruised, limping about the place. Just two kids who want to go home. Time goes by. He adjusts his bootstraps. She toys with the sword. They stall, neither fighters wanting to do this. They listen to the chants.

"Fight, you swine. Fight!"

"Chop her head off!"

"Kill him, kill him, kill him!"

District Two versus District Two. They live for this stuff.

His eyes fall on Amandus, looking down from his throne.

'Fight, my boy,' he mouths to him. He raises his goblet to drink. He raises his weapon to fight.

He is here for a reason. He is a Zorata. They fight. They win.

He allows Fiorenza to start. The force of her shatters upon him. All the strength that's left in her is mounted in each attack. She wants to make this quick. So does he. They're locked in combat, the quiet, sweaty bubble a force field from the chaos that surrounds us. The other battles have taken their tolls. She's fast yet not as fast as before. He counters yet not as well as before. Mid-lunge, she stumbles and falls face first into one of the many pools of blood. It could be Ferran's. Or Ora's. A fallen comrade from the war. He hesitates and just about gets a finishing blow. He evades it just in time for it to pierce his side instead of his heart.

The sounds, the blood, the heat. I'm losing it out here.

What do I do? What do I do?

I look into Fiorenza's eyes to compare. She never makes eye contact. Ever. The short conversation on the train ride here replays in his head.

"_Do you regret this?"_

"_Regret what?" _

"_You know. This. I have a little brother and sister at-"_

"_No. I've killed before. So have you. What will a few more deaths mean to me?"_

Years at war, one year of training, and those are the only words he's spoken to his "district partner".

Killing those kids. It's eating at her. It's eating at him too.

But he doesn't it show. Let her be emotional. His mask is set.

He waits, and waits, and waits. The moment her shoulders slump, he charges forward. She doesn't know what hit her. The swords lock twice. She's pinned to the wall. His fist meets her cheek. His knee slams down on her wrist. Bone cracks. Her weapon is to the side. She's on the ground now, unarmed,barely conscious.

He looms over the bloody girl. The entire stadium is screaming his name.

Sword held high, Maximus gives his district partner one last look. With her better eye, she stares him down as tears roll down her beaten face. His too is wet. Fiorenza Campana was from District Two. His comrade. A good girl from what I could see. He don't want to do this.

But he must. A soldier never disobeys orders.

The sword sinks into her heart. Trumpets blare. Confetti falls. Amandus declares Maximus Zorata the first Victor of the Hunger Games. Peacekeepers hurry to drag the crazed boy behind closed doors. Maximus motion towards his childhood neighbors. Neither make eye contact

Eight minutes, forty-four seconds, and a lifetime of regret.


	2. Enrique

**Chapter 2: Enrique**

"Don't," is the first thing his parents told him when she died.

The Games were mandatory viewing. He didn't knowing what to expect. Terrible, terrible violence. Kids killing kids. Is this what they sent their loved ones to, to die for the Capitol's entertainment? He figured these "Hunger Games" would be harsh, but this was crazy. Is this what they get for allying with the Capitol?

With the odds stacked against her, Ora soared through the competition. At first. District Ten was weak and Twelve got off easy the first round. He hated seeing her that way because he knew that wasn't who she was. But it was either rebel blood or her own. She was smooth sailing until the rock that was Fiorenza Campana came crashing through. District Two sliced her up. Mutilated her. He hated District Two. He hated the girl. Still do, even in death. You never forget your sister's killer.

His parents refused to fund the volunteering fees. Who could blame them? They lost family in the war and now Ora was gone. He was all they had. Even if they wanted to help, they couldn't. Ora's training cost an arm and a leg (literally speaking now). The boy had to pave his own way, doing whatever odd jobs he could come by. Did the dreaded night shift on the boats, worked for the Capitol's reconstruction crew. Four suffered a lot during the war, the sole naval force for the Rebels and eventually the Loyalists. There was plenty to clean up.

Word got around what he was doing. Everyone had their opinion about it. His schoolteacher begged him to focus on his studies rather than "those silly Games". The dock supervisor laughed in his face. His girl threatened to break up for the fifth time. They were too shook up from last year. People around here weren't as trusting of the Capitol now. They had a district to rebuild. Let One and Two fight it out. He didn't like the Games, but he had to go in. Someone had to. And seeing his big sis die like that...what brother wouldn't?

By the time he reached The Community Wellness Center, he was a household name. Enrique Segundo. Ora's brother. The few eighteen year olds serious about the Games hated him. The scar on his collarbone was no accident. Daniela particularly had a special rage for me. Her sister lost the chance to fight last year. She declared that she would go into the Arena and win, no one holding her back. The Capitolites picked up on our rivalry and fed into it any way they could. It was no surprise when the President chose us.

So they went to the Arena. Same place, same rules. Except this time, the Rebels were ready. Weren't so terrified this time. Somehow, they had trained after the first Games and came guns blazing for the second. Nine actually took out Daniela.

The Rebels weren't the only ones with a vengeance. Or fighting for their sister. When Pietro Campana stepped into the Arena, alarms went off. He's Fiorenza's brother. He knew my sister's killer. Yet instead of hating him like he was supposed to, Enrique liked him. From the brief moments they got to speak, he seemed like a respectable guy. He hated _not_ hating him, and he knew it. 'No hard feelings' he told the boy. 'Me and you are in the same boat buddy.'

'No hard feelings'. Enrique kept that in mind when his sword tore through his chest and granted him victory. His brown eyes never stopped staring. His wide mouth never stopped screaming.

"Inner monologuing again?" A deep, raspy voice halts his thoughts. From afar, Laetitia lounges on the door panel. Smoke pours from her nostrils as she fumbles with her cigarette case. It is her ninth one in two hours.

A stout, balding Peacekeeper approaches her, avoiding eye contact. He looks as foolish as he feels. "No smoking, Miss Altezza."

A cloud of smoke is blown in his face. Laetitia adjusts his too-large collar and cocks her head back, a cackle escaping her throat. "Or what? You'll report me? Ha. And it's _Madame _Altezza to you. The divorce isn't final."

Argument over. She tips the butt on the man's collar and walks over to the table, not giving the fuming man a second glance. I would high-five her had I could stand her.

"Enrique," her grating accent pronouncing it wrong. "You mustn't focus on the Games too much. What's done is done. No knows that better than I."

"But I haven't-"

Long nails scrape against the tabletop. "No buts. Shape up boy. District Twelve is in fifteen."

He silences with a scoop of food, rolling his eyes when the woman's not looking. Today's lunch: anchovies, jarred cherries, jerky and sun-dried tomatoes. Tasteless war rations. Immediately forgetting her advice, Laetitia moans on about her woes and worries interrupted only by her incessant cough. Madame Laetitia Altezza is part of his Victory Package deal. '_To act as escort, stylist, and mentor_' stated President A.R. Snow's letter. Of what duties she has he's not sure because the elderly woman hasn't done much. There has been talking. Lots and lots of talking. He knows a lot about Laetitia. She's a diehard Loyalist. She hates all the districts, Four included. Two of her grandsons died in combat. In his grief, Mr. Altezza left her for their maid. Volunteering as escort was her way of 'shoving it to those bastards'. Her words not his. Her favorite color is olive. If the Victory Tour was on Laetitia 's life, he'd ace it with flying colors.

Unfortunately, it's not.

As with all their conversations, this one is entirely about her. The new Victor hasn't told her about the nightmares, or the panic attacks. She wouldn't care. She made that clear when she told him to get over something that happened just eight days ago.

He does find perks to Laetitia's blabbering. Through the head nods and mumbles, he's given time to think. For the Victory Tour, Enrique is to be paraded around each district and land in the Capitol for his Introduction Party. Laetitia expects a personalized speech for each stop. He have nothing so far. What should he say? 'Thank you for letting me kill your children. All this is your fault. Have a great day!' Last year was awful. Two districts tried assassinating Maximus. Four districts broke into riots. By the time he reached Four, an entire squadron surrounded the guy. If that's how they treated the first Victor of The Hunger Games, how in Panem's name will they treat the second?

Eight days ago, he killed four boys and one girl. Now Panem's prized killer is headed to their district to chat about it.

The Capitol works in mysterious ways.

A loud buzz is emitted from Laetitia's side. "I'm so over him and...Oh! It's time! It's time! Enrique. Boys. Prepare yourselves. District Twelve is rough around the edges."

The incredible scent of coal and filth engulfing the train does not help any. Laetitia's claws dig into the boy's skin as she pulls him from the chair and to the door. The train stops. Doors open. A swarm of Capitolites are waiting. He breathes through his mouth and dives in. Cameras, crew, yells, screams. Faceless hands grab at him. A small yelp leaps but it's drowned by the chaos. Peacekeepers, for once being useful, push the horde away, giving the boy room to move. District Twelve has no real train station, just a few railroads smackdab near the main square, so the stage isn't far. When he gets there, he wishes it was.

Sitting side by side in simple wooden coffins are Private Gordon Heist and Private Thistle Barron, District Twelve's former contestants in the Second Annual Hunger Games. His entirety freezes at the sight of them. What...what are they doing here? This didn't happen last year. What is the point of this?

Rough hands shove him to the center. The mayoress, in a dingy dress suit, throws him scraps of paper. Laetitia motions for him to begin. He's so close to the bodies I can smell the mothballs on them.

It's showtime.

"District Twelve." he has to squint to read the illegible handwriting. Most of the words are misspelled. "What an honor and welcomed surprise to be standing here today."

He shouts out his speech, no microphone to use. The Victor adjusts his collar one time, two times. He's sweating pounds out here and it's not just from the hideous tweed suit he's wearing.

"The Hunger Games is the ultimate test of bravery. Of skill. Of humility. And most importantly, of sacrifice. I, Enrique Segundo, embody those very qualities. Brave warriors of each district rose to the challenge. But it was District Four who reigned supreme. No other district would...huh?"

_sale out to the Capitol like the Loyalists did._

He reads over the sentence twice to make sure he's seeing right.

Behind him, a throat is cleared. The click of a lighter isn't far behind. "Problem, Enrique?"

"Nope. Smooth sailing," he whispers too fast. If he recites these words aloud, he will be tried for treason, Victor or not.

Well shit. He says the first thing that comes to mind. Cameras are still rolling. "Would show their loyalty to the Capitol."

The crowd is silent. He's in the clear.

He perseveres through the speech, the cue cards getting worse with each flip.

_How pathedik to see traytors slawter their own kind._

"How inspiring it it to see such noble boys and girls fight for their beloved country."

_I should be killed for the crimes I've comited._

"No doubt I deserve the fame and fortune that is of being a Victor."

_Some day the Capitol shell fall and we will be the ones with the last lauf._

"Bless the Capitol and all its mercy."

Now it's time to talk about the Tributes. I give the card one lookover. I guess not. Curiosity gets the best of me and I find myself reading through the entire thing.

_Gordon was a good boy. A brother. A son. A friend. A fiter. He faute bravely in The Enlightenment, a noble member of Team Brimstone, and in The Hunger Games. Several of the Capitol's cowards fell by Gordon's hands. Thistle was gentle off the feld but a force of nature on it. With a sharp eye and sharper aime, she could take down anything the Capitol threw her waye._

_Let not there deaths be in vain. Mark these words, for we shell rise again and onor all those who have fallen to the Capitol! _

Tattered pieces of cloth make up the crowd. Less than last year, security reasons, but the effect is the same. They don't want to be here. He killed Gordon. He was his last kill before Pietro. Arguably the best Rebel fighter of my year. At the front of the vigil is his family. A mother, father, two sisters. All Thistle has left is an old man and a scraggly mutt. He killed their greatest Tribute and their greatest shot at winning the Games so far. They're pissed and can do nothing about it. Peacekeepers have them surrounded. They're not afraid to shoot.

He gives each Tribute a long stare. What is he doing here? These people are in mourning and he's bragging about it. He's taken away someone's child. Someone's brother. He's no better than Fiorenza. No better at all.

"Enrique, are you done? You're embarrassing us on live television." Laetitia is by my side now, teeth gritted into a smile. "Finish up or get off the stage dammit!"

He watches as the families are escorted away, Gordon's to the left, Thistle's to the right.

_Let not their deaths be in vain._

Without another word, Enrique stumbles to the nearest sit. Laetitia says a few words which garners two whole claps. He doesn't know if the speech was appropriate or even made sense, and right now he doesn't care. He wants to go home.

* * *

But they don't go home. Instead, he's shuffled around the district on a tour no one wants to complete. They're on foot, no vehicle to use. There isn't much to see. Twelve wasn't known for their tourism. Its inhabitants, barefooted and covered in coal dust, roam the dirt roads without reason or purpose. The vagrant and the shackowners are indistinguishable. Laetitia looks ready to faint. Twice he steps in something brown and moist. The odor sticks to his rented shoes long after its been flicked off.

No one makes eye contact, not even the children. People scatter in their wake, grimy children shushed and silenced as half-dead animals are herded back inside their pins. He doesn't care. He didn't want to talk to them either.

Leaving what the tour guide called "The Seam", they enter the upper-class area. It's no better over here. Hollow-cheeked merchants sit slouched over empty shelves and cases. He purchases a dozen stale pastries, a satchel, and incenses out of pity. Twelve has always been this bad, well before The Dark Days. Thirteen had the graphite stuff going for it.. Ironically, these deplorable conditions came at an advantage during the war. Because of their few weapons and fewer resources, hardly any battles were fought on Twelve soil. Never had any official troops either; the few who were able-bodied joined Thirteen's army. Once they were blown to pieces, Twelve's involvement in The Dark Days was over. The taxes must be killing them.

"Victor Segundo! Victor Segundo!"

A tiny thing of a child hops in front of them. He's dirty, shirtless, and smells. A plastic cup is shoved in Enrique's hands. Peacekeepers position their guns.

"Coins sir. Just a few coins to buy a meal for my family sir. Please!"

"Well, um, I don't know little boy-"

A hand slams down on the child's face, smashing him to the ground. What little coins he had gathered scatters across the ground. Already a crowd is forming. The tour guide throws the small child into the air and tosses him out of our way. The beggar boy grabs for whatever coins are left and runs off into the distance without another look back.

The tour guide is still yelling long after the boy has disappeared. "And stay back! Those damn Hawthornes. Always harassing folks."

"Figures," deadpans Laetitia. "Tour's over. Thank you for that experience. Now, a party awaits us at the mayoress' estate. Come along. I heard there will be alcohol."

* * *

"So I told my husband: "It's either me or her!" The bastard chose her! Could you believe it?"

Feigned responses are thrown Laetitia's way. She's either too oblivious, too selfish, or too drunk to realize they're not interested in her drama. She sips on her drink and continues on. Enrique slinks from the elder to venture off to the other side of the room. It's no better. Conversation stops when the boy arrives. He's interrupted an intense bragging session on the mayoress' indoor plumbing. Going by the death stares from her entourage, he wasn't invited to join.

They're well into the Capitol-mandated "party". It's supposed to be for him, but it's hard to tell. Laetitia is drunk. The Peacekeepers are partygoers look ready to kill him. The mayoress pretends he doesn't exist. The air is tense. Everyone can feel it. Eyes shift back and forth. Conversations are in hushed tones, minus Laetitia. Silent dinner was served an hour ago. While everyone else ate the cloudy stew of unidentifiable objects, Enrique resigned himself to the food rations on the train. The new Victor knew better.

Here he was, alone in the corner, watching the night go by in a stuffy suit sticky with sweat and soot. He rummages through the hardtack bag he's been munching on. Great. Ran out. Something's gotta give. Then, it hits him.

_Let not their deaths be in vain._

He's barely to the door when he is halted. A hand is held out, stopping him in his tracks.

"Where are you going?" It's the same aggravating Peacekeeper from the train.

"For a walk. Need some fresh air. Is that allowed or must I ask for permission?"

Guests are looking our way. The music has come to a pause. "I shall join you. For your safety."

The mayoress zooms toward us, "So shall I. For _our_ safety."

"No problem. Two's a company, three's a cause."

They leave the party unannounced. On his way out he grabs the satchel from earlier. No one spares a word to Laetitia who's currently juggling two jars of moonshine.

The mayoress folds her arms. "Exactly where are we off to, little boy?"

"His title is Victor Segundo, miss."

"Can it, District Two. I wouldn't care if he was King of the Wilderness. He's a boy to me. And it's Mayoress to you."

"Have you forgotten my status as Peacekeeper, District _Twelve_?"

"Both of you quiet. Victor's orders." By the sudden end of conversation, it's actually a thing. "I'm going to see Gordon and Thistle's families. To pay my respects."

The mayoress isn't touched. "Maximus didn't do this last year."

"That was then. This is now. Point me in the right direction please."

They walk along the main square. Evening's here. A welcomed breeze cools down the July heat, making the walk bearable than before. The sunset would be beautiful had the pollution not block most of it. The streets are emptier now. Merchants have closed shop for the day. The decorations from earlier have been ripped down. He saw the thieves scamper off with them.

Minutes go by. The mayoress asks questions and the Peacekeeper gives orders. Besides that, no one speaks. Nothing Two, Four, and Twelve have to discuss. Family's a touchy subject. Politics might get someone killed. The walk is longer than expected. With just one city in Twelve, he figured it'd take them no time to get there. The dress shoes are doing nothing for his blisters. His feet are screaming for him to stop but he keeps on. He has to do this. It's the only chance he's got.

He finds the first target. It's a raggedy two-story building. Fading brick line the outside. A single candlelight glows in the upstairs window. We step onto the whiny porch. _Hamilton's Candles & More_. _Sale!_ _Buy one, get two free! _He knocks twice. Dogs race to the door, ready to pounce at the intruder.

"Whoa, whoa! Lucy! Rose! What's gotta into ya?" says the chandler as he opens the door. His smile drops when he sees what's the fuss is all about. "Why are you here?"

"I'm wondering the same thing," grumbles the mayoress.

Things go silent. Lucy and Rose get shooed away after gnawing on the Victor's pant legs. The chandler's more curious than anything, bushy eyebrows cocked in question. Enrique stares back, failing to find the proper words. He hadn't planned this far ahead.

To break the silence, he digs into the satchel. The chandler grabs for something behind the door. Gasps are heard behind me. Things calm down once they see what I'm doing. Thirty tin micis, President Praevalia Snow's profile on each. The old man catches the money in his scarred hands, carefully counting out each coin. Behind him are shelves upon shelves of dust-ridden candles and cobwebs.

"This could buy me and the girls food for the entire month. Patch up the leak in the roof! I don't understand."

"It's a gift," Enrique tells him. "For Thistle. Give her a proper burial. One she deserves."

Tears form in his eyes. He throws the boy into an embrace, submerging him in body odor. The Victor flinches at the physical contact.

"Thank you, Victor Segundo. Thank you."

"Thirty micis? Are you crazy?" says the mayoress as they leave. "Now don't go causing trouble in my district, boy."

"I'm a Victor. What you make in a year I make in three months. Besides, you started it with those cue cards."

That quiets her.

The Peacekeeper turns towards her. "What of the cue cards?"

They ignore the question With a pep in his step, they make it to the other side of the merchant sector in no time. Dodging the beggars, we spot our next stop in a row of cramped buildings and dead shrubbery. _Heist's Consignment Shoppe_. Gordon's place. The curtains are drawn. Lights are off. Loud sobbing swims out the windows.

There's a tap on his shoulder. "They're in mourning. Let them be. I'll give them the money tomorrow."

"No," he declines the offer. "I did this to them. This is my responsibility."

He takes a deep breath. He can do this. Killing Gordon was wrong but he had to. He needed to avenge Ora's death. No hard feelings right?

He knocks once. The sobbing stops. There's muffled conversation. An argument. Something breaks. Rushed footsteps down the staircase. The curtains peep open. One lock is taken out. Hesitation. The second is undone. The door cracks open. Bloodshot eyes stare out from the darkness.

"Hello? Mr. or Mrs. Heist? I'm Enrique Segundo."

"I know who you are. What do you want?" The voice is loud and ragged. He stands tall and continue on.

"I came to give my condolences."

"For killing my son?" The door swings. Mrs. Heist hangs on the doorframe. Alcohol's on her breath. It's the cheap stuff Rebels used in the war. She grips the bottle like a mother to her baby, the white liquor halfway gone.

"What I did is unforgivable-"

"Correct."

"-and I am truly sorry for your loss."

The silence that follows is at best uncomfortable and at worst terrifying. Mrs. Heist stares blankly ahead, eyes focused on something no one else can see. Any moment she'll fall into tears, or kill him.

He digs deep inside the satchel and pour out its remains.

"Eighty micis. It's all I have to offer."

The woman takes the money. She stares at it for an eternity, twirling the tin around her dirty fingertips like a foreign object. Then, something clicks. Her head shoots up. The three officials jump back at the sight. In her steel eyes is a fierceness stronger than anyone Enqirue fought in the Games or the battlefield.

"No amount of money will ever replace my boy. Eighty micis? He was worth the world to me!" A finger flies through the air, jabbing him in his forehead. His fingers start to twitch. Fists are already drawn. How dare she put her disgusting fingers on him. "You stole my son away from me. You did, District Four, you did! You should've died in that damn Arena. You! Not Gordon. Not my boy."

He dodges the coins. His companions aren't as fast. The money hits them square in the face and showers down to the ground. Stragglers are already gathering to thieve up the coins.

"Get this Loyalist money away from me and shove it up your ass, you worthless traitor!"

Spit lands in his eye and it takes both the Peacekeeper and the mayoress to hold him back. Good thing, or the Heist family would have been without two family members today. The drunkard goes for him but is willed away by the cock of a gun. That turns her wrath onto the Peacekeeper.

"Tell Little Mandy up in his dollhouse what I said, exact words from Lily Yvonne Heist. Now get off my lawn before I give y'all a reason!"

The door slams. There's arguing. Someone is slapped. The adults drag him back to the estate before the rats peel the suit off his back.

"How dare she!" he yells when he breaks free from the grasp to straighten himself up. His hair was all out of order from this. "I gave that animal my entire savings for the month!"

The mayoress is beside herself with glee. "Money can't bring back a life, Enrique. I told you to let them be. But what do I know? I'm just a District Twelve hick."

He looks to the Peacekeeper for backup. "Won't you do something about this?"

"I'll look into it."

* * *

The Victory Tour continues on as such. Every district is in stiff competition to top the rest Rotten fruit and manure get thrown on stage in Eleven and Ten. A family from Nine tries to attack him. Shots are fired in Seven and Six. What little possessions he had on him were pawned off in Three.

District Two is the worst. He is the single reason they are without Pietro and without a double win. It reads on their faces. They don't clap, scream, riot, do anything. Just stare in silence. Defiant silence. He finishes his speech nine minutes early. No one seems to care.

Maximus shoves a bouquet of wyethias to his chest. His handshake nearly crushes the new Victor's. "What a show in the Arena. Welcome to the club, District Four."

Leaving the stage, Pietro's family catches his attention. Tears fall down his parents' faces as they try not to show their grief. A pretty brunette stands in front of them. Not one tear streaks her face. She won't allow it. Two empty spots surround her. Where Fiorenza and Pietro should be. He was in her shoes just last year.

Waving off the Peacekeepers, she runs in his direction.

"Enrique Segundo."

He turns toward her. The girl sounds older than her years. She looks up to meet him in the eyes and begins.

"I am Ciona Campana. My sister died in the Hunger Games. My brother died in the Hunger Games. I will volunteer and avenge their deaths. Just wait. You'll see."

So angry. So full of life. So stupid. This little girl thinks winning the Games will bring them back. Right the wrongs and make life better.

A long, loud laugh is his response. "Sounds like a bad fairy tale, sweetheart." He hasn't eaten a solid meal in days. Sleep is a stranger. Can't trust anyone enough to blink let alone rest. Miss Campana's mask falls and hands are to his throat. Peacekeepers are unusually slow in their reactions.

"Don't," is all he says and walk off, not giving the girl another look back. "Now where's my tour guide? This heat is unbearable…"


	3. Jordano

**Chapter 3: Jordano**

When Enrique rescued Jordano from the Arena, he felt good about himself. He was one of the lucky few to bring his Tribute home first year in (Dolores didn't count. She was a lost cause). The experience validated his roles as both Victor and Panemite. The double win catapulted District Four's reputation. From neutral party during most of the Dark Days to leading district of The Hunger Games. Much to the chagrin of One and Two. All were enamored with Enrique, Jordano, and District Four itself.

Until Jordano actually _became _a Victor.

Jordano hated the Games. Most of the Four's Victors did, but they had the good sense to pretend. When he did show up to Reapings, a scene was sure to follow. Arrive immediately after the Tributes were called. Throw debaucherous words at the Escort. One year he went on stage in full Capitol lingerie, complete with stockings, wig, and heels. Peacekeepers almost killed him for that one. He didn't feign interest in sponsors, cut interviews short if he didn't make it a living hell for the reporter, barely spoke to any Victors outside his district, and indulged in the excess of Capitol life while his more obedient colleagues managed the dead.

Jordano hated the Tributes. Law required Loyalists who survived the Games to teach at their respective training facilities. Jordano found every which way around it. Every day he was forced to teach at the CWC was every day he was kicked out. Once more Victors started coming in, he simply stopped going. His mentoring skills were a joke. When Jordano was your mentor, it was understood you were not coming back. First year in, the man shows up _supremely _drunk to the Games! He had a way with words too. Jordano made sure to give his Tributes a parting gift: "You will die in the Arena."

Nothing more, nothing less. Most shot back with a smugness that would eventually lead to their deaths. A few cried. One crafty girl attacked him with a bouillon spoon, the scar on his shoulder proof for those who never believed him. But he was never wrong. They always died. So he kept with his "advice".

Most of all, Jordano hated rules. It's how he won his Games without even knowing. Enrique had seen the pair from One and knew they'd be trouble. Because he was such good friends with one of the Gamemasters, coincidence would have it that Jordan be given the weaker competitors to start with and the other Loyalists each other. Surprise, surprise that the final round was child's play. The nine seconds it took to decapitate Barr Faraday of District Three was immortalized in every media source imaginable. The gruesome scene was everywhere, including Jordano's every waking thought. To show his gratitude, the newly crowned Victor cursed out a group of Gamemasters at his Victor's Ball mid-fawning and stumbled back over to the open bar. Enrique was left picking up the pieces trying to save face (and lives) over something Jordano did. It was a role he would never grow out of.

Jordano was a tornado of a man, sucking people in, spitting them back out. Relationships of any kind weren't his thing. Romantic ones were a pipedream. Capitol surgery and natural good looks, neither sex could resist. Patron or partner, district or Capitol, he blew through them all. He never married. No kids either. 'Why bother?', he thought. 'They'd just get in the way.' So he kept on with his philandering, and was the man good at it. What other Victor had the gall to actually _seek out _customers?

To some, Jordano Salvaje was an exotic butterfly trapped in a proverbial cage. To most, Jordano Salvaje was a rebel. And the Capitol loved every bit of him.

At least the plebeians did.

The man was a patron of decadence and disorder, the commoners his faithful followers. His vices validated theirs. He made it okay to drink too much, cheat on your spouse, support the Games. The self-righteous benefited too. 'Hey, I'm not as bad as Jordano' was the running gag in the big city for years to come. Best of all, Jordano added life again. Joy. Through the toils and troubles of resurrecting the city and funding the Arena, Jordano gave them a reason to laugh and just enjoy living. His rowdy antics sparked giggles and gossip from those around him. He was the prototype for 'The Bad Victor'. Long before that feisty sapling from Seven, or that drunkard from Twelve, or The Catch of the Century from his own district, there was Jordano Salvaje.

The ruling class, however, did not find Mr. Salvaje so inspiring.

Maximus and Enrique were compliant. Predictable. Boring. Model Victors. Then you had some wild boar compromising the already fragile system. It was the first problem Little Mandy had to face in his presidency, and did it make him fussy. He felt bamboozled. Jordan was so put together when he selected him for the Games. Then he goes off the deep end for no good reason! Initials plans were to exterminate the pest and cry freak accident. "Unknown allergy reaction; Victor falls dead", "Jealous robber kills in cold blood". But he saw how much his people loved him. His death would cause an uproar and resources were already spread thin. So he was kept alive. Amandus Snow was but a servant to his people. But he still needed to be punished. Most of his family were killed off in the war, so that was out. No stable friends or lovers to target outside Enrique. So that just left the next best thing: his Tributes.

Some years he wondered if he tried would they come back alive. A determined kid with a good heart would come around. One with a fighting chance. But then he looked at the others. For all their mentoring and schmoozing and sleepless nights and lost meals and mental breakdowns and binge drinking and suicide attempts, they were rewarded wooden boxes too. So he didn't bother. Unbeknownst to him, it didn't matter if he sold himself halfway around Tartarus. As long as President A.R. Snow was in power, Mr. Salvaje's children would not make it out of the Arena alive.

People quickly caught on. Tutelage under Jordano was a deathwish. Townspeople were wary of him. Associate with him and your child could be reaped. His colleagues, if you could call them that, tolerated him just enough for Games season to end. Capitolites knew better than to sponsor any of his kids, but he was always welcomed to their parties!

People avoided him, which fed into his bitterness, which just made people avoid him more. Only Enrique could break the cycle. Most of the time. The whispers and silly (but not totally inaccurate) superstitions didn't bother him. The Capitol favored District Four's first Victor too much for it to dissuade him. Enrique motivated the self-destructive man to make something of his life. Put down the bottle and be a damn Victor for once. He'd abide by his mentor's words for a while. Two, three weeks tops. Then some event, some call would blow it away. Mentee also helped mentor. Jordano supported Enrique too. An open ear and bottle of rum was always available when the more put together of the two eventually broke down. Being the perfect Victor/mentor/celebrity/citizen/role model/husband/father/friend would weigh on anyone. That's why he didn't try.

Over time, their relationship changed. Enrique was Jordano's alarm clock when he "accidentally" overslept on Capitol visits. Jordano would sober up if he mentored with Enrique, monitoring the Tributes while the charismatic beau used his charm to woo in Sponsors any means necessary. The two became close. It took for Enrique's oldest to babble out 'Tío JoJo!' to make it official: they were brothers, through and through.

None of the others knew how Enrique could stomach Jordan, but it was simple: they understood each other. Enrique actually bothered to see through the chaos and recklessness. He knew him signing up to train was a matter of life and death, not honor and patriotism. He knew how angry and alone he felt being a war orphan. That he longed for a family of his own but was too afraid of the hold the Capitol would have over him, like the Capitol had on him. Behind the drinks and the escapades and the lies and the belligerence sat a terrified eighteen-year-old boy who broke down in his mentor's arms at the thought of killing any more people on the train ride to the Third Annual Hunger Games. That same mentor would reassure him with falsities neither men believed from then until the day he died.

And Enrique did eventually die. To the amazement and disappointment of all, Jordano outlived him. He wasn't bothered by the snide comments and rude remarks. He felt the same way. Jordano never wanted to outlive his mentor either. What for? Times had changed. His fans were either dead or "too mature" to associate with him. The reputation he had gained couldn't hold water against the new sights, sounds, and tastes of the districts. He was a washed up has-been, the Capitol's fickle attention enraptured by the more youthful Victors now. No one cared about a slimy spendthrift who barely loved himself let alone someone else. It's why he had zero Victors under his belt. Why he didn't sacrifice himself for the otherworldly Odair. He wasn't like the infallible Margarita Corazón, rescuing Panem's darling murderess Analisa Cresta from the big bad Games. Oh, how amazing and _perfect _was she! Jordano should've took the hint and just get it over with already. He was ready to hole up inside his monstrosity of a mansion and sulk the days away. Until he got an idea.

Reaching the dusty telephone, he called up the few people he could remember for a nice chat. None were the movers and shakers of Panem, but they would have to do.

"What do you need now Salvaje?"

"Who is this?"

"I'm sorry sir. She has been dead since the Sixty-Eighth Games."

"Jordano. You still owe me for that time you lost your Victor's Card and I paid your entire casino bill. The _entire _bill."

"Make it a date and we'll call it even. My husband's on his deathbed. He'll never know."

Empty compliments and incinerated confidence later, the deed was done. A smug smile crossed the elderly man's face. No longer would he make a fool out of himself. He'd show them all not to underestimate the power the third Victor of Panem had. They wouldn't know what hit'em.

He watched the Games unfold. Saw the Victor-Tributes unite as one during the interviews. Saw the Victor-Tributes kill each other the next day. Mags die. His neighbors pack their things and leave. The Peacekeepers raid the Victors' Village the first time only to find an elderly man sprawled out in his underwear. The starcrossed fools from Twelve play kissyface. The starcrossed fools break out of the Arena with Odair.

Well that was unexpected.

The chaos began soon after. It seemed instant really. No one bothered to rescue him in their escape. He understood; they didn't care to inform him of the rebellion, they wouldn't care to save him. While others either ran for their lives or fought with their lives, Jordano got up, closed the blinds, locked the doors, poured a glass of rum (stirred twice, no ice), and waited. It's not that he wanted to die, because he didn't. Certainly not like this. He simply had no other choice. In five days, Jordano Salvaje would be ninety years old. He hadn't used a sword in decades and a gun since the war, well, the first one. If the Peacekeepers' feet didn't outrun him, their bullets would. The others had abandoned him. All he had was a good drink and scathing words, like always.

Most astounding to Jordano was what concerned him at the moment. He could accept his impending death. Not like it, but accept it. Ninety was an accomplishment. Most in the districts didn't live past sixty. What he couldn't accept was not knowing a rebellion was in place. Why had no one told him? There were always little whispers here and there, but he never took any of them seriously. Then he realized his mistake: he never took _anything _seriously. If he'd of just went to the CWC more. If he'd of just spoken to the others more. If he'd of just been a better Victor more. If he'd of just done more, maybe, just maybe he wouldn't be where he was now.

When they burst through the mahogany door they so meticulously crafted all those years before and shot through the old man lounging on the rank, worn couch, all in all Jordano was satisfied. Yes, he died a painful, barbaric death. Yes, he was a little upset over not finishing his drink. But he finally did something good. Jordano pooled enough money to allow a connection of a connection to persuade some guy named Plutarch Heavensbee in including the trident that Finnick used in the Third Quarter Quell. Just as he had done for the boy an exact decade before during the Sixty-Fifth Games. It wasn't much. He certainly could've done more. But he had a small hand in the second rebellion (or "The Mockingjay War" as it would later be called), and dammit, that was enough for him.

In his final moments, Jordano Salvaje did not think of all the years he was nothing. He thought of the few times he was something. Just as everyone assumed it was Mags responsible for giving Finnick that trident during his first Games, no one would ever know of his contribution to the rebellion, and that was okay to him. Jordano was never one who needed recognition. Maybe old Rique was on to something with that whole "help your fellow man" shit. But it was too late for him. His time had come.

Out with the old. In with the new.


	4. Viridi

**My apologizes for the delayed update. I recently accepted an incredible job offer where I will be moving all the way to New York this weekend. First time living outside my hometown in Georgia. I'm beyond excited!**

**Thank you to my readers & reviewers! ****Feel free to leave a comment or two. I love feedback. :)**

* * *

**Chapter 4: Viridi**

It is commonly believed that the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games was the first to have more than one Victor. In the traditional sense, that is correct. Games preservationists, commonly known as "fans", know the truth.

Joining the likes of President Corionalius Snow's rise to power and the aftermath of District Thirteen, The Fourth Annual Hunger Games would become one of the many unsolved mysteries of Panem. What was the mystery you ask? That year, no one "won".

After the Third Games, a poll was conducted. The Capitol audience was asked to rate their satisfaction with the Hunger Games. Most saw it fitting punishment for the Dark Days. However, two issues arose. Those with paternal instincts complained that the mandatory viewing needed more family-friendly options. A child's mind was too delicate for such violence. Others felt that the Games were too predictable. Save last year, two Loyalists were always the last ones standing. What fun was that when you knew how the Games would go? There needed to be more chance. More excitement. More _danger_.

The first change were interviews. Comedienne extraordinaire Thalia Scortese was signed on as Panem's Master of Ceremonies. Reluctant to support the annual deathmatch, a pay increase and lighthearted threat and the president's court jester was all smiles. These talks, three minutes each, would act as preliminary entertainment to the masses with sideshows from the Capitol's rising stars during commercial breaks. Unbeknownst to the population was its true purpose. The interviews served as a screening process to detect any kinks or quirks deemed unfit in a Victor. Funding for the psychology department was low with all the war clean-up, so this was the next best thing. Amandus Snow would have no more Jordano Salvajes on his hands.

Placed in the center of the newly erected City Circle, the interviews were a hit. Her humor acidic and words unforgiving, the crowds relished in the sight of Miss Scortese shredding what little confidence the children had. None of them were told of the interviews, but only the Loyalists had the good sense to keep face. The others, well...the recaps had plenty to choose from that year. Most notable was Viridi Vox Segreto of District Two. Standing at an diminutive 5'4 in his tattered Reaping suit two sizes too big, Scortese had her guns locked and loaded. Little did she know, so did he. The others gloated, giving away all of their strategies. One and Four took the time to pick on their shorter, younger Loyalist, earning quite a few laughs with their jokes. Viridi did no such thing. Each question given curt responses. Jabs at his height met with cool indifference. He unbothered by the others. The stoic teen would not play along. By the time the buzzer rang, Thalia Scortese was made to look the fool, sweat dripping down her foundation. Her livelihood was on the line too. The only thing the audience knew of Viridi Vox Segreto is that he "would fight well", "is a Loyalist", and "appreciated the opportunity". And they couldn't get enough. 'Such mystery!', 'Captivating!', 'So cryptic!', 'A wild card for sure!'

Journalists bombarded his mentor. With a knowing smirk, Maximus keep up the act. "You'll see."

The Gamemasters' threats to off the enigma were silenced by their young superior. Amandus Snow liked Viridi. The boy had smarts. Besides, this year's change would take care of him if need be.

Piecing their self-esteem back together, the twenty-four children were placed back into chains and marched to the Arena. There, they met the second change to the Fourth Annual Hunger Games.

Instead of being led out one-by-one, all twenty-four Tributes were placed in a semi-circle. The chains kept them in place, though it didn't stop some from shuffling. They're dressed in the usual hand-me-downs, eyes fluttering back and forth from the roaring crowds to each other. In the center lied a metal contraption of sorts. Sparse weapons laid scattered around the mouth of a shoddy replication of a cornucopia.

From the distance, Viridi counted how many there were. Six swords, six spears. Twelve with weapons, twelve without.

He gave a brief glance of concern towards the Victors' Lounge. The briefest hint of confusion ran across Maximus' hard face. The young adult gave his protégé the slightest of shrugs before staring back into space. Enrique was visibly perplexed, scratching his head and throwing hand signals to his Tributes. Jordano was drunk.

Their plan would not work. The favors Maximus had established couldn't happen now. He'd be of no use to him, Viridi decided. He would have to go at this alone. He could do it. He knew he could. He had to.

At once, the chains came off. No one waited for an explanation. They all charged towards the meager pile like their lives depended on it. Well, it did depend on it.

Viridi was first. The boy was short but was he fast. He grabbed the closest sword to him, kicked the remaining weapons deeper into the mound, and turned on his assailants. He couldn't break the metal weapons, but he could make it harder -and more dangerous- for them to get.

Eyes steady, tool in hand, he went to work. He cut through Anaheim first. He wanted to be a train conductor when he grew up. His sword glided across Mercy's neck. She thought prayer could pull her through. Basil from District Eleven tried in vain to tackle Viridi to the ground. It earned him a gift through his abdomen. He wouldn't be going back to his little brothers. Fabiola's shoutsof teaming up died when District One quite literally cut her off. Viridi had just enough time to recover seeing his former classmate die to parry Lush's attack. Both teens were covered in someone else's blood, relentless in their efforts to kill the other.

Pure, utter chaos. There was no rhyme or reason to anyone's movements. Loyalist against Loyalist. District partner versus district partner. Children dropped left to right, two by their own hands. The audience was beside themselves with glee. Little Mandy, a few drinks in, even joined in on the cheering. Why hadn't he thought of this sooner? It was simply sublime! To the Capitol, this was quality entertainment. A Hunger Games to top them all.

Then, it happened.

Some say a Tribute with bad aim threw too far. Others claim Cree Raccroc of District Twelve, a disgruntled foot soldier from the war, did it on purpose. The boy did look ready to kill in his interview. Some even believe President Amandus Snow himself planted the act. What everyone can agree on is that the crowds didn't know what hit them. Literally.

The crowds. The wild, euphoric, exposed, foolish crowds. Too busy hanging off the barely-there railing, enjoying life, taunting the dead to realize in a few seconds some would join them. The spear pirouetted into the air, somersaulted down, and landed beautifully into two Capitol bodies. Aspiring actress, loving wife Vita Tori. Straight-A student, beloved son Nico Occhio. No one knew what had happened until the screams began. Long, hysterical screams ruptured through the stadium walls. The fighting stopped. The cheering stopped. All heads turned to Section D, Row 4.

Madness began.

The once rabid crowd was now a terrified horde. A stampede soon followed, Capitolites crushing one another in their panic. The president's cries for order fell on deaf ears. Peacekeepers tried to manage the situation, but there were simply too many of them. So instead, they focused their attention on the Tributes. The last thing Panem saw of the Fourth Annual Hunger Games was Virid Vox Segreto killing the still dazed Lush before the cameras went black.

Immediately, the Tributes were disarmed and lined up for a headcount. Fifteen laid sprawled out on the dirt. Eight stood side by side, shoulder to shoulder to former opponents. The girl from One, Viridi from Two, both from Four, one from Seven, one from Ten, and the girl from Eleven. That made twenty-three.

One was missing.

Cree Raccroc was nowhere to be found. Somehow someway, he had escaped during the pandemonium, never to be seen again. It would haunt Amandus Snow's career until the day he died.

Needless to say, he was pissed. He was known for his temper tantrums and that day was no exception. By the time he descended from upon his throne, the man was practically foaming at the mouth. It took some yelling, stomping, and an all-out brawl with his advisor and two Peacekeepers to soothe him. Once straightening himself up (and getting over the fact that he lost), Amandus Snow declared with the twitch of his hand that the remaining Tributes be put to death for the insolence. The Victors were quick to action. Zooming past the firing squad already in formation, Maximus and Enrique gave whatever ideas they could think of to the cranky youth. Arms folded, pout steady, he fell to reason and struck a deal with the two men. Viridi gave a small nod to this mentor. A silent thank you. Maximus didn't spare him a glance.

If the accident was one thing, the aftermath was an entirely different story.

Rebels, the few who were left, misinterpreted the act as a call to arms. Sadly, the fight was over before it started. Numbers were scarce. No one would risk their lives for what was now a pipedream. The attacks backfired miserably. Instead of being sniffed out, the pests came to the exterminator. The Capitol swiftly washed away the last of The Dark Days and there went the hopes and dreams of "The Enlightenment".

Eight Capitolites in total died that day. Initial reports claimed Jordano as one of the dead, but he was later revealed to have passed out seconds before the act occurred (Amandus was overjoyed to hear the news). Damage control was a mess. A memorial piece was commanded from each district to honor the eight innocent lives lost in the Arena. Statues were erected in the two who died by the spear. Capitolites wanted justice. Public executions, stricter taxes. Something to make the districts pay for the deliberate act of rebellion. Amandus Snow put his people's worries to ease. He knew what would satisfy their vengeance. It would take some time, but they would surely enjoy it.

But first, the deal with the Victors. Someone out of the seven had to be the next Victor. It was decided that whoever with the highest kills would be granted such title. After reviewing the tapes, Viridi Vox Segreto was crowned Victor of the Fourth Hunger Games with a kill list of four Tributes. The boy, waiting on pins and needles at the Victors' Grounds in the Capitol, was summoned to the City Circle to conduct his Victory Interview with the still-shaken Scortese and proceeded on with the normal chain of events. As gratitude for the service to the Capitol, Eloquence, Arroyo, and Estela were returned, alive, to their districts and sworn into secrecy.

The remaining three were executed on live television following a speech on honor and penance by Panem's esteemed president.

Mixed reception awaited Viridi when he returned home. District Two was a prideful place. Receiving a Victor by vote reduced their image. Victory was won, not given. It made the Games seem easy, and District Two was never one for easy. Viridi disgusted his mentor. Finally Maximus gets his Victor and it's under such unsavory circumstances. He had to beg Amandus Snow, _the_ Little Mandy, to save his protégé. Beneath him. Eventually (an entire year), the proud champion let bygones be bygones and accepted the boy as an equal. He was a Victor, through and through. Even if his title was a plea bargain. Plus, little Nicolina had softened the man up. It was hard being Maximus Zorata, Victor of The First Hunger Games, when a colicky baby kept you up all night.

The Capitol was not so forgiving. Several of the Peacekeeper staff was terminated, permanently. A complete cull and rehire of the Gamemasters went in place. Nicknamed "The Forbidden Games", the Fourth Annual Hunger Games was declared a national tragedy. It was not shown in the daily reruns. Retail copies were banned; anyone found with a home production were subject to fines. Merchandise and memorabilia were confiscated. Viridi was given the cold shoulder. It took several years- and countless dead children- for anyone, Capitol or Two, to treat the boy with any sort of dignity. People wouldn't be caught dead fraternizing with anyone from "_those_ Games".

Over and over, the tapes were reviewed. Days of discussion and debate dragged on. In the end, no true culprit could be found. The fight was just too chaotic. Though erased from history, the effects of the Fourth Hunger Games would shape Panem in ways no one could ever imagine.

None of this mattered to Viridi. Well, the district part did a bit. District honor did that to you. But the rest was irrelevant. He won the Games. His job was complete. He had a nice house and a nice life. No longer would his family break their backs in those horrid quarries, toiling over rocks to make ends meet. Besides, he could use the winnings for whatever he desired. And needed.

The baby wasn't going to feed himself.


	5. Brilliance

**Chapter 5: Brilliance**

The hovercraft lands.

An automated voice speaks through an intercom. "Tributes. You have reached your destination. Loyalty to all. Loyalty to one."

The national motto. The new one. "Loyalty to all. Loyalty to one," we repeat back.

A smile creeps upon Eloquence's face. "We're here."

The hovercraft moves downward. Unity and I share uneasy glances while we wait. I twiddle my thumbs. Unity picks her fingernails. Just where is Eloquence taking us?

The main doors open. Peacekeepers instruct us out. We're in some sort of building clearance. The place is dimly lit, fluorescent lights high upon the ceiling. It smells of mildew and fresh paint. The others are already huddled in a corner, nervous, unsure of what to do. At least we're not the only ones. A girl from the lower districts can't stop crying. Her exasperated district partner tries to quiet her but to no avail. We join the rest and depart in a single file line, I leading the way. Eloquence joins the rest of the escorts. The Victors are nowhere to be found.

We exit the clearance and enter an antechamber shaped in a semi-circle. This is even darker than the clearance, lit only by a few candle lanterns. From what I can make out, twenty-four unmarked doors line the steel walls. A Peacekeeper stands guard by each.

Suddenly, we're broken from our district partners and sectioned off. The sight of Unity leaving sends an odd sense of panic through me. It must be the motion sickness from the ride.

"Remember the plan Unity!"I yell out across the room, twisting my neck in her direction. I'm pushed inside the doorway before she responds.

The room is tiny. A table, chair. A tube connected to the ceiling. A metal plate lies at the bottom of it. Light illuminates from up top, casting color in the near black room. Cracked linoleum make up the floor. My closet back home is bigger than this.

Eloquence squeezes past and races to the chair. What is she doing here? She sees my glare and smiles.

"As interim ambassador and mentor to District One, I must accompany Tributes throughout the preceding events of The Hunger Games to ensure your chances of victory so I can get out of this shitty job."

"What about Unity?"

"She won't win. Too good-hearted. And _polite_. Not ruthless, like us," she blows me a kiss. An eyebrow is raised. "That little act out there. You're concerned about someone besides yourself? Do tell, Idiot."

I cross my arms, caught off-guard by the comment. "Nothing," I say too quickly. "I just need her to stick to the plan."

She doesn't believe me. "Fair enough." A fingernail taps on the table. "Take off those rags and change into these. We're wasting time."

I walk over to the table. A long-sleeved shirt in bright vermilion, black spandex tights, underwear, and worn war boots lie neatly in a bundle. I unfold the shirt and stare expectantly at Eloquence and the Peacekeeper in the corner.

"The tops are of the District Colors," she ignores me. "So you're easier to find."

"You mind?"

Eloquence cuts her eyes towards my crotch. "This wouldn't be the first time Brilliance."

With an eager audience, I quickly slip out of my Reaping wear-pressed and starched by Father's help-and put on the uniform. Opening up the top fully reveals a large '1' stitched in white on the back. The outfit's breathable. No pockets, but I can manage.

To curb her leering, I start back conversation. "What exactly is this place?"

"According to the very enthusiastic engineers, it was something the Old World slapped together. A military hideout during The Global Wipeout." She looks around the room and chuckles. "Guess it didn't work."

"Now, it's a holding cell for Tributes. Or what the Ten boy called it: 'The Stockyard'. I like that better. It has a certain, hmm...finality to it."

I go to ask what's above us when the same automated voice from the hovercraft interjects.

"Thirty seconds till launch. Tributes, on your plates."

The Peacekeeper comes forward but I shoo him away. I'm step on the plate. Eloquence and I stare at one another for what feels like the full thirty seconds. Finally, I speak.

"Are you still angry at me?"

She cuts her eyes away. "Yes."

"Do you really want this to potentially be the last conversation we have?"

"Yes."

"You're ridiculous."

She stomps her heel on the floor, the sound barely making an echo. "You cheated on me! With Mignonne of all people! That cow."

Now it's my turn to get defensive. "That was an entire year ago! You were busy ignoring me."

"Well I'm sorry I was _training for The Hunger Games_. Wherever were my priorities?"

We are in each other's face now. I can see the tell-tale signs of surgery, her cheeks too high, her lips too full . "All you ever were was a selfish, stuck-up twat."

"And all you ever were was a pompous, clueless _little man_. Oh, might wanna wait a minute before you step off your plate. _Bonne chance et adieu_ Idiot!"

A clear wall cuts off my retort. The plate jets into the light. A sharp scent of earth stings my nostrils. White light. Then, it clears.

We are in a meadow. It's enormous, miles on end from the looks of it. Short grass is beneath my feet, chickweed speckling the growth. Trees have sprouted here and there. Not enough for a forest but can make a decent hiding spot. Far, far away are mountains. It would take days, a week tops to get there. No water or food sources but the temperature's cool. Memories of picnics and parades and Mother giving us candy are casted the moment they come. Don't need that clouding my mind.

To my left is Crying Girl in District Ten sepia doing, you guessed it, crying. To my left is District Two stiff as a diamond on her plate.

Six Tributes down, a dash of forest green leaps off its plate.

KA-BOOM! BOOM!

The ground shakes. There are screams, several of them. I think I'm screaming too. I can't tell. A geyser of dirt, blood, and gore rockets into the air then showers down on us. It takes every last bit of training and manhood not to faint in front of the cameras I just know are watching our every move. A piece of spandex labeled '7' lands delicately by my feet.

'_I'm the fastest boy in town Thalia. I'll outrun them all this year. Just watch me.'_

'_You got guts District Seven. Real guts.'_

Thalia was right. I can taste them.

KA-BOOM! BOOM!

Second Tribute down. No geyser this time.

Seconds go by. The dust-and body parts-eventually settle. The Cornucopia's countdown ends. A gong from above rings through the meadow.

Not one person moves. Clearly, the ground is certain death. But what are we to do? Wait it out on the plates and see who can outstarve the others? This is The Hunger Games, but come on. I scrap the grime from my eyes and peer at the others. Where is Unity? The quicker we meet up, the better I have of this thing working.

A rumble begins. It's so bad that Crying Girl nearly makes Victim #3. I chalk it up to the mines and go back to searching for Unity. Until I see them.

They're massive, even from this distance. Four, five, no, six of them race towards us. Panting. Growling. Drooling. Roaring.

That gets us moving.

To hell with the mines.

District Two reaches the pile first. I'm next, just about knocking into the Cornucopia as I snatch up two swords and briefly wonder why my legs aren't blown off. My eyes rock back and forth, searching high and low for my district partner.

Come on Unity. Where are you? Where are you?

A few seconds later and she's here, terrified and covered in gunk but alive. I give a quick glance to the pair in timberwolf as I pass Unity her sword. They aren't paying us any mind.

"What are those things?" Unity shouts, back glued to mine courtesy of Seven's entrails. She gets her answer soon enough.

One leaps into the air and shreds the little one from Twelve. Crying Girl is dragged from her plate and fought over by two of them. I mentally curse at Eloquence for telling us to eat so much on the hovercraft.

Smelling our fear, an ugly one breaks from the pack and charges towards us. We brace ourselves and cling tight to each other. Then, at the precise moment, we detach and swoop into opposite directions. The beast runs straight through our divergence and deliberately slams into the Cornucopia. Our swords cut through it before it can get up.

Well that was easy.

One down and...five more to go.

We give a quick lookover of the creature. Short brown fur. Paws the size of my head. Claws thicker than my sword. Some type of hideous bear breed. Can't be natural. No bear is this big. Then it hits me. Muttattions. I heard war stories about them but never thought I'd see one in person. Never wanted to. Guess this is the punishment President Snow's been harping about all year long.

A shout comes from my left. District Two is surrounded, two of the muttations charging at them. I'm headed in their direction.

"Unity, over here!" I beckon her to follow. Dodging teeth and limbs, we survive to the other side of the opening.

"Help Marcellus! I'll get Ciona's!" Unity stands uncertain for a few seconds then complies.

"In Panem's name are you doing!" Ciona barely gets out. The muttation has her pinned to the Cornucopia. One false move and she's dead. But when I approach the scene, things change. The mutt becomes docile, fearful actually. It relents from the short girl and cowers away into the distance, knocking over another mutt in the process. What was that all about?

Our confusion gives the scrawny cog from Three time to steal a sword from the pile. Ciona giddys up after him but I steady her before she can take off.

"No time. We'll get him later. Let's go help the others."

"You don't tell me what to do glitterhead," she barks as she follows behind me anyway. We arrive to our district partners. The beast is dead but the battle has just begin. Unity and Marcellus are pacing in circles, silently sizing the other up. Ciona races to join Marcellus, twirling her sword for effect. I'm to Unity's side looking back and forth between District Two. I don't wanna fight them just yet, but I will if it comes to it.

I try a diplomatic approach first. "Let's kill these things then we can fight."

Marcellus goes to speak but is cut off by his master. "Why not just kill you two now? We don't need you."

"Actually, you do." I leap out of formation to attack the mutt heading straight towards Ciona. Together, we take it down in seconds. She fights off the embarrassment.

"You two, take the two on the right side of field! We'll help District Four and finish this later! Go!"

I don't wait on their reply. Unity and I are off, bouncing to the far side of the meadow. District Four is having better luck with their mutt, actually maiming it in the hind legs. Once we arrive, the scene is the same as before. It halts as if petrified and limps away into the deep. District Four is more compliant than Two and after a little convincing, they follow us back to the Cornucopia. Side by side, never loosening the grips on their swords.

We help District Two and the last mutt falls. Things go quiet. Beast and Tribute lie scattered throughout the plain. The few who are alive long fled the scene. An unspoken 'What now?' is thick in the air. Each of us are to our district partners, willing someone to make the first move.

"What's the plan now Brilliance?" Unity whispers to me.

I give two brief glances to Two and Four then clear my throat. Slowly, without taking an eye off Ciona, I lower my weapon to the ground and hold my hands forward. Unity looks ready to flee.

"A truce. I offer to you a truce."

Ciona laughs the idea away. "No."

With a snap of her fingers, Marcellus is on the ready. I snatch up my sword. Unity braces for impact. District Four starts to head off. I halt Ciona's warcry by clinking my sword against the Cornucopia . I stand strong and secure as I speak.

"Put away your swords and listen! There are six Tributes left. Six. Who knows how far this meadow goes or even where we are. We need to stick together, like it or not. If we fight now, we could end up killing each other and have one of them win. I _refuse _to let Rebel scum ever be Victor. Marcellus. Ciona. There is strength in numbers. You know that. Luna. Azul. The quicker we kill them, the quicker one of you can get out of this Arena before that shoulder wound gets to Azul."

"We get rid of the Rebels, then we end this. Deal?"

Two and Four cast glances each other's way. Don't question it. Just say yes. They can't find out about District One. We need this win. We can't lose our accreditation.

Unity chirps in. "With no water or food source, the sooner the better. Separate and all of our lives are at risk. And must we recall saving you against the muttations? In a way, you sorta owe us."

"We owe you nothing."

Luna is the first to break. "Okay, okay. Deal. I guess."

Azul nods his head twice, more concerned about his cut than our debate. I take it as a yes.

I turn my attention to the undecided. "Just you District Two. What's it gonna be: allies or death?"

"Watch your mouth, One," says Ciona. She orders Marcellus to the side. Discussion, debate, an argument, some whining. Finally, they reach a decision.

Ciona approaches me. She puffs herself high in an attempt to reach my height. She doesn't past my shoulders. "Alliance accepted. Once the common interest expires, you die."

Seeking out the remaining Tributes is, as expected, a daunting task. If anything, the alliance makes it worse. I try to maintain order. At first. That quickly falls through.

It's hot. We stink. We're filthy. We're thirsty. We're hungry. We're constantly on guard for the Tributes and mutts. No one trusts the other. Even Unity is starting to give me the eye. And the more will kill, the worse it gets.

Most hide in the woods. Few go down easy. I get the first kill, the Three kid who stole the sword from us. He damn near takes off my arm before I catch him in the gut. Ciona's next. She toys with the Eight boy before killing him and ripping off the violet shirt. Keepsake I guess. Marcellus and Azul fight over the boy from Eleven. Ciona joins in to regulate. Marcellus kills him without permission, setting off a feud between the two. I give the next one to Azul so he can shut the hell up about it. He can barely swing his sword at this point. Luna's much better about her kill, getting straight to the heart of District Six. Unity's is a mercy-kill. The little boy is unconscious by the time we find him sprawled out in the open plain.

Two hours and the rest are dead. Unity's sword is still in the boy's chest when the alliance breaks.

Marcellus rams his sword through the barely alive Azul. Luna slits Marcellus' throat. Ciona battles Luna. The two are back and forth, evenly matched and tempered until Ciona gets the upper hand. She kicks the corpse to the side and steadies her gaze. I'm side by side Unity. But not as close as before. Ciona dives in, screaming as she charges forward. So showy.

The girl's good. Fast but strong. We assume the new formation taught back at the Academy and tag-team her. It's to no avail. She pummels into us, relentless in her efforts. She fights us off with such ease. What the hell are they teaching them in Two? Twice I lose my footing. Her sword grazes my arm the second time around. It would've been my neck had I not reflected it. Someone screams. I look to my left. In one swift move, Ciona has impaled my district partner. With the girl still gasping for air, she jerks the sword out of Unity's chest, slams into her, and peers back at me.

"Oops," she smiles, flicking the blood off her weapon. "Now that that's over, ready to die, glitterhead?"

"Ready to join your sister and brother, Campana?"

No more smiling now. We're at full force. Our movements transform into a dizzying dance of death. The blades strike with the the hope of victory and the fear of dying. We hop, leap, dodge over the fallen, knowing one false move and we will join them. How the injuries from Ciona's fights have no effect, I have no clue. How _my _injuries from the fights have no effect, I have no clue. Minutes pass. We are at a standstill. Neither of us wants to die.

Breath haggard, I use all my might and lunge forward. The sheer weight of me throws the smaller girl off. She flies back, stumbling over herself. Her foot catches on something and she slams into the ground, a clear opening. It's Unity. My district partner helped me out. Three swipes of my sword. Dead. She doesn't even scream.

"Thanks Unity. For everything."

There's deafening applause. Overhead, a hovercraft appears. A voice instructs me onto the ladder. I pass out before I reach the inside.

* * *

Only one doctor and two nurses were needed for recovery. The three hours spent in the Arena gave way to moderate injuries, far better than what was expected. Two moons later and the sixteen-year-old was on stage cracking jokes with Thalia Scortese. The Capitol was his to mold; who could resist a blue-eyed blond with such an _infectious _smile? Back home, he was a hero. Brilliance's victory took District One off probationary status, granting them a ten-year contract renewal with the Capitol. By the next year, enrollment in The Academy of Physical Wellness and Healthy Living was at a record high. The act also relieved Eloquence Tromperie's status as ambassador of District One. And revived the love affair between Victor and pardoned Tribute. Sources claim they were spotted slinking off to his Capitol assignment. They weren't seen for two straight days.

Brilliance Fortier was credited for single-handedly saving District One's fate in The Hunger Games. His idea of forming an alliance between Loyalist Tributes would go down in Hunger Games history. The Career Alliance went from a shot in the dark to customary to an unspoken rule. He was revered in the Career districts, and abhorred in the rest. Amandus Snow took pride in Brilliance. The Fifth Hunger Games was the success Panem needed. The muttations operated as planned: attack the others, avoid District One. Finally, a suitable youth fit to hold the title of Victor.

Of course, he always held a soft spot for the luxury district. Seeing them lose Loyalist status would be an utter shame. It held too many close ties-and bloodlines- for him to let that happen.


	6. Westley

**Giving thanks to all my readers! If you haven't already, leave a review when you're done. Your feedback keeps me motivated.**

* * *

** Chapter 6: Westley**

The Snows were known for their indulgences.

Ascension Snow, patriarch of the dynasty, held lavish feasts of spoiling food and whores from each district. Meanwhile, his people starved.

Praevalia Snow wore her inauguration crown heavy with One's finest everywhere she went, including the battlefield. It was not found with her body.

Quirinus Snow, in his death, called for his two favorite concubines to be buried with him. Alive.

Sciocca Snow was no exception.

Cousin to Little Mandy, the bubbly teen enjoyed life to the fullest. Parties, dresses, boyfriends, drugs. Hedonism was Sciocca. She would not let the deaths of her aunt and father, a war, reconstruction of the entire nation, _or _the annual slaughter of children get in the way of her duties. Her priorities were set. She had a legacy to uphold.

Her greatest addiction was the Victors.

While she hated the Games (gore _so _wasn't fash), she loved what they produced. Gorgeous, stalwart men of glory. Every Victor had the pleasure to be in the company of the royal teen. To a performance hall of the greats or a soiree with the elites, the boys were her to claim. No one elses, no, no. You never shared your favorite toys.

Most preferred was Westley Seabrooks. The son of a war refugee and dockmaster, he was the sophistication of One with the ruggedness of Four. A beautiful mix. His father's pay with his mother's stash allowed him a life of privilege. He could dance with the best. Dress to impress. Laugh about the Games. And most importantly, knew a salad fork from a fruit fork. The looks and grace of a true Victor. Many a Capitolite mistaken him for one of their own.

Sciocca adored him. Never had she seen such a wonder. When he won his Games, she did not see a shell-shocked boy covered in blood trying to attack a hovercraft. She saw a _man_. Normally, she would send for them after they were prettied up for the interviews. This time, the eighteen year old just had to see her Victor. He was chatting with the best of them before his numerous surgeries, Sciocca tight on his bad arm.

Rumors flew about the two of them, the wildest involving a forced abortion from her own cousin. Westley casted them away with a gentleman's wave. Sciocca laughed them off. She never slept with her boys. They were District. She was Capitol. Simply heinous. Though the hellion of the Snow family held a peculiar secret: she was saving herself for marriage. Unheard of in the Capitol. Not even her suitors knew. One too many bedtime stories of dead maidens and warriors fueled the fantasy of meeting her knight in shining armor. The attention, meanwhile, was much welcomed.

His colleagues weren't fans.

Brilliance envied him. Who was he to steal his glory? He only had one year!

District Two found him pretentious. They found everything pretentious.

Enrique found him unappreciative. The boy was his Tribute and not a thanks was given.

Jordano hated him. He was everything he stood against. Pretty. Manipulative. From Paradiso Bay. _Blanco_. Mixed breed. It was one thing to play the Games. It was another to play Victor. A conspirator. A traitor. The man would have nothing to do with the junior. Being bailed out of debtor's prison didn't count.

None of this mattered to Westley. He won the Games. 'A life of fame and fortune,' Enrique reminded them each year. 'Of prosperity and power.' He was doing such that. More importantly, he had business to do. The Capitol held immense opportunities, beyond the ones Enrique yapped about and Jordano abused. There was something deeper, stronger. Useful. Westley didn't understand it, nor did he know what they were. But he saw them. Understudying his father's business was behind him. He was a Victor now. Might as well make the most of it. When in the Capitol. It's a wonder the others didn't. Too simple-minded probably.

His favorite part of his new status was an unexpected one. He met him at one of Sciocca's mindless parties. Escaping the clutches of the rabid girl, Westley stumbled into the one area of the Snow Estate he hadn't explored. The rose gardens were enormous, swallowing most of the backyard. He lost himself in the beautiful maze. Flowers big as maces, spiked vines long as whips. A little cherub robed in cream sat perched on a bench admiring one rose whiter than his namesake.

"Daddy was an avid gardener," he spoke without looking up. Westley stopped in his tracks. The alcohol dulled his senses. He felt like a trespasser. "Don't worry. My sister hates the gardens. They depress her. You're safe with me."

Westley tiptoed to the blond and sat beside him. Conversation stroke. The boy talked of politics, regulations, the Dark Days, the Games, how silly he found his cousin. Topics unusual for his age. The child was wise beyond his years.

"Amandus is completely incompetent." He plucked rather roughly from the flower.

A Venus flytrap to its prey. "Oh? Do tell. Our president is rather stupid."

"It's true," he plucked another petal from the flower. "He would rather use alcohol and Bliss with Sciocca than do his duties. Thank goodness we have Tarpeia."

If only he had a notepad. These were family secrets just spilling away! "Big words for an twelve-year-old. What makes you qualified to make these claims kiddo?"

"The same qualifications that allows a fish boy to be in my presence."

The Victor coughed in his handkerchief.

The now naked stem is tossed to the side to be replaced by another. "A poinsettia," the boy admired to large plant. "Native to your district."

Westley nodded.

The boy stared off into the moon, twisting and breaking the delicate petals with deliberate fingers. "I'm going to rule Panem one day."

Westley nearly choked on his spit. He didn't dare ask how. The boy looked at the teen and laughed. Westley joined in, having the good sense not to question why.

"I like you. Much better than the others." Tiny eyes gleamed in the night as teeth formed a smile. "You're now my friend."

Westley fumbled with an answer, eventually stuttering out a thank you. The blond placed the ruined poinsettia in his lap and hopped his way off.

The Victor stared at the boy in cream. "Thank you, Corionalus. For your friendship."

The serene noble turned around and answered with the same toothy grin. "Don't thank me. Thank yourself. Friend." Corionalus faded into the dark, leaving the perplexed teen alone in the gardens. For a few seconds. Already, he could hear the mad screams of his drunken companion.

This friendship would prove most useful to Westley. And Corionalus.


End file.
